


To Feel and Find Home

by argylemikewheeler



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, New York Era but Make it Different, Not Theo's usual internalized homophobia but he's not exactly super Cool with it, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Vague descriptions and depictions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26255101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argylemikewheeler/pseuds/argylemikewheeler
Summary: It's nearly four years after Theo ran back to Hobie in New York. Boris returned, both the painting and himself, to Theo after two years apart. Theo thinks he can keep on living with Boris as his in-house friend, but the threat of losing Boris again to distance makes everything he thought he was ignoring flare up. Theo's in lo-- no, he's scared.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 9
Kudos: 153





	To Feel and Find Home

**Author's Note:**

> All this started because I thought of the idea of Boris having braces... enjoy xo

**i.**

“Potter! Potter, come here!” Boris bounded into the house, knocking on all the walls trying to find Theo. Theo was only ever in one place: sitting on one of the bed’s in the spare room—the only one that was ever used—and doing his homework. Theo’s early afternoon class had been cancelled, and he’d started ahead on the readings for the coming week. If only so he could guiltlessly lose track of time getting drunk on the beer Boris had stolen the previous weekend.

“What, Boris?” Theo placed his books down on his lap and braced his weight as he leaned forward, as if to better speak through the door.

“Potter.” Boris was out of breath, gripping the sides of the door frame. His eyes were wide. Theo thought for a moment Boris has gotten high without him—on a _Tuesday_ no less—but it was three in the afternoon; Boris should’ve just finished his _own_ day of work. There was no way he—well, okay there _was_ a way, but Boris didn’t look how he normally did high. Rather, his eyes were wide as if to still the rest of his face and stop him from smiling. “ _Potter_.”

“Well? What the fuck is it? Spit it out.”

“Braced!” Boris shouted, grinning widely. It looked painful. Both the smile _and_ the rows of metal brackets glued and strung to his crooked teeth. “Potter, am _braced_!”

“No shit!” Theo stood up and let his books slide to the floor. He lifted his hands to inspect Boris’s mouth, and wasn’t sure when _that_ became a natural habit: his fingertips carefully pulling apart Boris’s lips—and Boris not moving away. “How the fuck did you get these?” Unlike most times, Boris’s answer _couldn’t_ have been that he’d stolen it.

“Me and Hobie have gone to dentist downtown—he does cases for poor ugly children,”

“Boris.” He was nearly twenty-one by then. They were not children.

The _other_ obvious argument that Boris wasn’t ugly was too delicate to be said then, but Theo hoped his disapproving, nagging furrowed expression said the compliment— _fact_ —clearly enough.

“And when he sees my teeth he says _‘ack! Just give this one new set!’_ but no! No! I see in every American movie, every one has braces! So I tell him to give them to me. Out of work early today and got braced!”

“That’s not a verb, Boris—where did you learn that?” Theo laughed quietly— _probably_ lovingly, but he chose to ignore it—and let his fingers resume pulling at Boris’s chapped lips.

“Dentist. Kept saying it. _Braced_! Is not a word? Man is _doctor_!”

“I think he was just being quirky… Better not repeat it to Hobie or you’ll never hear the end of that joke until you get them _off_.” Theo let his hands slap against his legs as he stood back. “How do they feel?”

“Like teeth could snap.” Boris ran his tongue over the metal brackets. Theo wondered how comfortable that was—what it felt like on his tongue. In the same moment, Theo made the horrible realization that he _could_ find out. But god, no. He wouldn’t. He would _not_.

Sure, Boris had been in New York for two years, and they’d shared the same bed every night since he’d come banging on the shop door. They both ignored the one Hobie had made for Boris on the other side of the room and acted like it wasn’t a shameful act to mess the clean sheets up every morning to cover their tracks.

In the dark, traffic-rumbling, wind-whistling, claustrophobic nights, they would cling together and try to recreate the feigned safety of Vegas—with only about one- _third_ of the drugs.

Boris still had contacts in Vegas—that directed him to contacts in the city—but he was also surprisingly vigilant about not disappointing Hobie. They popped sparing handfuls of orange pills on the days that they needed a fix the most; when they needed to be able to easily fumble with each other and their words as they turned over and over and over in bed.

Even with the drugs though, Theo hadn’t kissed Boris in four years. It was on his mind— _sometimes_ —but he was sure that it was, now, mostly due to the fact Boris was _making_ him look at his mouth. His teeth.

“You probably shouldn’t eat tough food for a while, huh?” Theo winced thinking about Boris eating… _the way that he ate_ … with tight metal wires and aching gums. Theo distracted himself by checking his watch that had stopped running two days prior. “Hobie might start cooking in an hour or two. We can go get you something else to eat and get back in time for dinner.” Theo really liked keeping dinner time as a non-negotiable tradition. Sitting at a dinner table was the only way to know who your real family was.

“What? No. Can eat just fine!” Boris seemed offended by the coddling. “Baby food not required, Potter. Can and _will_ eat whatever Hobie make. Always delicious.”

Theo tried to quickly dissolve his hastily created image of him buying Boris ice cream for dinner—something that would only get Theo seeing more of that painfully shiny smile. “Okay, yeah. Fine.” There wasn’t anything to be upset about. Nothing.

“What are you reading? Is homework— _still_?”

“I’m in six classes, Boris. _Yes_ , I’m still doing homework. So, if you’re not going to be quiet in here, get out.” Boris was no stranger to bluntness, but even Theo felt he was too harsh. “This reading is really dense and I just—I don’t want to be distracted, okay?”

“Okay! Okay! No need to chew the head off! Can make myself scared.”

“ _Scarce_.”

“Will make myself scarce, then.” Boris left with both hands raised in the air.

As the door closed behind Boris, Theo sank down into his seat with a rock forming in his stomach—tossing around and gaining another layer to help it grow in size. Theo knew what he’d admitted in his complaint: Boris _distracted_ him, now more than ever.

**ii.**

Eating dinner was an awkward affair.

Hobie made a very strange point to tap Theo on the arm—at first, Theo thinking Hobie was telling him to get his elbows off the table—before asking him if he’d noticed Boris’s new braces. His tone was light, asking a question that was merely a way of enabling Boris to talk about his day if he so chose. Theo kept his eyes on his chicken and nodded, admitting they were hard to miss. Then, after Boris grinned and had a small paternal fuss made over him by Hobie—taking every second of his ability to be an American-Movie Teenager at the table—he tried to eat. He’d denied Hobie’s request to make things easier for him with softer foods and said he felt great.

Then Boris tried chewing.

Theo never saw Boris look so uncomfortable with food around him. He put a ripped shred of chicken in his mouth—he refused to use a knife, still—and froze when he tried to chomp down. Boris set his jaw and exhaled sharply through his nose. He blinked and tried to chew again, a short sound of complaint escaping from him. Theo couldn’t imagine how much dental work had been done to Boris that afternoon. Pride kept Theo from ever being told—and Boris from picking up food that wasn’t edible _mush_.

Theo didn’t know how to offer help, so he didn’t. He ate in silence and let Boris insist he was okay. Eventually, Theo got up to continue his homework and left Boris at the table, still eating, as Hobie stood to take their empty plates away.

An hour later, Boris came shuffling into their room. He slammed the door. Theo twisted around in his desk chair, prepared to snap at him again, but saw Boris was already standing behind him, dejected.

“Am so hungry.”

“You were just eating.”

“ _Hurts_ to eat.”

“Then eat something _else_.”

“Stomach think throat has been cut. But no! Is just _teeth_.” Boris pointed frantically at his mouth. Theo let himself look. Boris’s bottom lip was bleeding, having caught on a bracket and split in a clean cut down the middle.

“What do you want me to do?” Theo was harsh, but part of him knew if Boris gave a genuine answer and request, he would’ve done it for Boris. Theo fought the urge to stand and meet him again. Theo folded his hands in his lap.

“Have any more Vicodin?”

“I—Boris it’s Tuesday.” Since _when_ did Theo turn into his—well, _a_ —mother? He’d gotten a lot more fucked up on a far less offensive occasion. He’d snorted _something_ before walking into his English midterm before. He’d watched Walt Whitman’s face melt down to his skeleton as his teacher started speaking backwards and handing him a bluebook. This was nothing, but still Theo refused. He had _had_ a better plan, other than the two of them getting high. It involved being stupidly hopeful and sober. “I have a better idea.”

Boris crossed his arms. “Listening.”

“Oh, shut up and get some fucking shoes on.” Theo pushed his chair back into Boris, laughing and waving him away. Boris did as he asked, slipping his bare feet into his keds. The heels were folded in from months of wearing them like slippers—when Boris was too drunk to use the laces.

Theo grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it over himself as he walked back out into the living room, nearly tripping over Popchick. He pushed his hood back and fixed his glasses as he swung around the corner to the kitchen. Hobie was washing dishes, humming quietly to himself.

For a moment, Theo wondered if Hobie ever got lonely. If he ever missed Welty the way Theo had missed Boris. _Had_ missed, of course, he was back… Boris came back.

“Hobie, uh, I’m going to take Boris to get some ice cream—softer food, you know?” He tried to sound inconvenienced. Hobie wasn’t fooled and smiled at him. It was genuine, but weak at the corners. _Yeah, he missed him_. “Can we get you anything?”

“No, you just be good and come back or call, alright?” Hobie was kind and un-authoritarian, but sometimes Theo wondered if Hobie knew just how funny his fatherly words of wisdom _were_ to people like him and Boris.

“Can do.” Theo patted the wall before grabbing his own shoes and going to the door. “Boris, come on. It’s a sidewalk not a fucking runway.” Boris hurried out of their room, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Finished picking your outfit?”

“Fuck off. Tell me where we are going.” Boris shoved past Theo and out to the stairs. Theo laughed, loudly enough for Boris at first before getting quiet to be just a moment of endearment for himself. As he closed the door, Theo caught Hobie turned toward the foyer. He was still smiling.

**iii.**

Boris was a runner. Not athletically, of course. But if there was enough open space to start getting his knees up and gaining speed as he walked, he would. Theo had to jog to catch up to him after locking the front door and slowly easing himself up the stairs. He still hadn’t told Boris where they were going, but he’d taken off anyway. Somehow, in the right direction.

Theo steered Boris, eventually, into their usual bodega. There was an ice cream freezer in front of the counter, but Theo felt awkward leading Boris to it immediately, in front of the man behind the register. What would it look like? Two college kids bee-lining for the frozen sweets, one bouncy and happy, and the other—the one with the money—reserved and tense. The _loyalty_ , the fucking _obedience,_ would read on Theo’s face immediately. They’d look like… well, exactly what they were.

Boris wandered down the aisles, staring up at the boxes of snacks and cereals. He kept quietly chomping his teeth, as if testing what each one would feel like—and reminding himself that he couldn’t eat any of them.

“What is there to eat?” Boris looked back at Theo. It was early spring, his pale arms without long sleeves and exposed, waving out before lifting in a shrug.

“Well, let me think.” Oh, Theo _winced_ at how rehearsed he sounded.

“Bread!”

“No.” Theo said, deflated by Boris’s interruption. “Don’t _chew_ —Boris, what is like, the easiest thing to do without teeth!”

Boris furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Theo incredulously. “... _Here_? In the store, Potter?”

“I—what?”

Theo wasn’t following. He turned his head slightly to incite Boris’s explanation. Theo felt a whole new level of shock when Boris lifted a fist to his face and mimed _“thing you do without any teeth at all.”_

“ _No_! That’s _not_ —” Theo squawked. “Ice cream. I’m literally talking about fucking ice cream! You don’t need teeth. You just lick— _Fuck_! You don’t have to hurt your teeth and just.” Theo felt his face burning up, all the way to his roots. Boris was howling with laughter, slapping his hands on his leg. “Go get some ice cream, Boris. Before I fucking leave you here.”

“Do not need your money, Potter.” Boris said, patting Theo’s chest as he passed. “Can just steal. Am letting you feel good. Boast are man with money; hard worker.”

Theo felt duped, caught and embarrassed now that his childish fantasy had been exposed—and promptly laughed at. Theo hadn’t thought of the money in his hand as a dead giveaway to the lengths he was going for Boris. They’d shared money before, collected and split between them, why was this any different? What had Theo done differently? What was slipping through his fingers?

Theo grabbed a box of borax and some batteries for his watch on his way to the counter, buying both with a sigh. He demoted Boris to nothing more than an inconvenient child, drug along because he couldn’t be alone at home that late.

As Theo exchanged money and change with the man at the register, Boris began pulling back the plastic wrapping around his ice cream cone. He’d gotten the one with a hard chocolate shell over the ice cream. It _was_ his favorite so Theo shouldn’t have been too surprised, but Boris really wasn’t getting the entire point of _soft foods_. At all.

“Boris, please don’t try to bite that.” Theo said tensely as he grabbed the detergent and tucked it under his arm. He avoided the look of the other man, letting coins fall into Theo’s open palm _slowly_ —undoubtedly because he was watching how Boris was childishly mocking Theo’s warning in high-pitched, muddled Russian. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“Am _hungry_ , Potter. You are slowing me down. Just let me _eat_. Please shut up and just—you buy to feed me, yes? Then. Shh.” Boris said impatiently, still struggling with the wrapper.

Theo grabbed his arm and began shoving Boris back out the store’s door, nodding to the man at the register. It was an ashamed, passive exit. The emptiness of the aisles, company consisting of only the two of them, amplified the loneliness Theo felt standing beside Boris and not being able to do _anything_ about their proximity. Not being able to do anything _with_ it.

It was infuriating to feel impossibly alone and invisible while also hyper-observed by the only pair of foreign eyes present. Theo wondered what he thought he felt when he was a teenager with Boris—if it was the same but he was now only becoming aware. Or if back then he really didn’t see anything wrong with what they were doing, and really truly _could have_ reached out and touched him— _kissed him_ —in their own public privacy.

Or it might’ve been all the drugs. Yeah, probably the drugs. They didn’t make Theo any _less_ , uh, _gay_ , but they sure helped him forget that’s what he was _being_ at the time. Back then his feelings just felt like hyper-attention to the blood in his veins and the glint of light across his glasses as he tried to soak in every one of Boris’s blurred features—only gaining clarity as he ran his fingers across them, somehow expecting them to be liquid: running over him like a gentle rush of water. Any and all feelings had felt so intrinsic to Theo. It wasn’t a discovery or uncovering, but finally the ability to notice they’d always been there.

But now, with about sixty-percent less narcotics fogging up his daily judgement, Theo could really understand that while sexuality _was_ actually intrinsic, his attraction to Boris wasn’t. Things natural to the body never felt overwhelming or threatening. Never made it feel like it was going to both faint and drown and catch fire and combust and disarticulate all at once.

Being sober and in lo—and _having feelings_ was the worst kind of trip because there was no end to it. It wasn’t about buckling in and waiting for it to taper off. Theo knew this was everything he was working _towards_ —admitting, accepting, living with and for. The periods of distraction were what he kept feeling taper off.

“Potter.” Boris said quietly. They’d gotten to the sidewalk, but Theo hadn’t spoken again. He’d stared straight ahead and unfocused at the height of the crosswalk lights, just registering if anything was red. “Potter!”

“Huh? Yeah, sorry. What? What’s wrong with it?” Theo blinked at Boris, finding a stripe of melting chocolate across his cut bottom lip. It looked liquid all over again. “What?”

“Bite for me?” Boris held the cone out to Theo.

“Bite—why? Is it _too tough to eat_?” Theo quipped. “Hm? Wonder who might’ve warned you about that?”

“Ack fuck off and crack chocolate for me, Potter. Am _dying_ here.” Boris nudged the cone closer to Theo’s mouth, tapping it against his lip and nose clumsily as they walked. “Ice cream is easier to eat—do not want to be just licking chocolate all way home.”

The chocolate wasn’t just wet from the condensation of leaving the freezer to then immediately being warmed by the still air of the spring evening. It was beginning to melt because Boris had stuck part of it in his mouth already; Theo could see the indents from his braces resting just above his teeth marks.

Theo was so parched. He kept looking at the chocolate on Boris’s lip, knowing he could easily pretend to taste it.

He grabbed the cone from Boris with his free hand and slowed his stride, forcing Boris to slow as well. Theo found the weakest, warmest spot in the hard shell and took a bite. The chocolate cracked in plates, pieces crunching in Theo’s mouth on the pool of melting vanilla ice cream. Smaller pieces on the edge of his bite stuck up in the softening ice cream, leaving a small border for Boris to start with as he got his cone back.

The chocolate wasn’t pure in taste—wasn’t just sweet and bitter and a little watery from the melting freezer burn. It was disgusting and embarrassing and awful and relieving to admit that Theo could taste _Boris_ in his bite. He could fully pretend he’d grabbed both sides of Boris’s face on that sidewalk, rather than his ice cream, and kissed him with every ounce of desperation he’d carried with him over nine state lines.

Theo could have pretended, but he didn’t. That was too easy, too real. It was barely a stretch to know that swiping his tongue over Boris’s sticky-sweet bottom lip would’ve matched the taste of that bite of ice cream—of the licking of Theo’s own lips for the last of the spit, chocolate, cream, and watery, slippery words he stopped himself from saying there in their publicly intimate moment.

**iv.**

The next weekend, Theo woke up hungover and sore. Boris had slept like a starfish and cramped Theo up on his side of the bed. In the morning hours though—or was it afternoon?—Theo had the space to stretch out himself. Boris was no longer beside him.

Back in Vegas, the disappearance wouldn’t mean very much; Boris was either raiding Theo’s kitchen, snooping for Xandra’s cigarettes, or throwing up in the sink again. Theo knew that he’d come back, either to flop down or to start jumping up and down on the mattress telling him to get up for school.

In New York though, a twin bed with one person felt far too spacious. It truly felt like abandonment rather than… well, what it was: Boris simply getting up before Theo.

But it wasn’t just that. It was getting up without _warning_ Theo. It was getting up without nudging Theo’s side and grumbling that it was morning already _some-fucking-how_. It was rolling off their mattress and leaving Theo curled under their quilt, still cowered at the edge. It was purposefully not making a sound.

It felt more like an escape to Theo.

He laid in bed for another hour or two, hand resting on his stomach and feeling his muscles contract every time he _thought_ about sitting up—but continuing to stare up at the ceiling. The house was nearly silent—except for the quiet clicking of Popper’s nails on the wood floor—which meant Theo was all alone. He didn’t have to worry about monitoring his disappointment. There’d be no one to catch his distant stares, or any furrowed eyebrows to ask: _“Theo, what’s the problem? You seem bothered—everything alright?”_

Eventually, Theo slinked his way into the kitchen. He was still shirtless and just in his flannel sleeping pants. He fumbled with his glasses the entire trip to the coffee machine, which thankfully was already keeping a half pot warm. Out of the cabinet, Theo picked the steepest mug he could—practical a bird bath with a handle—and filled just under the rim; he didn’t trust himself not to spill it as he walked back to his room.

The coffee was just under searing hot—and very burnt. It was a clumsy pot of coffee, and a ridiculously large cup, but it was the best breakfast Theo could think of. He sipped it carefully—slurping, actually, since he _was_ home alone—and settled into his desk chair. Popper followed him in and tried climbing up onto the bed. His whines were the first conversation Theo had that morning.

“What’s wrong, Popper? Hm? Want to get up?” Theo pushed his papers to find a safe place to put his mug—and any resulting coffee rings. “You’ve got a whole empty one over there. We can just say it’s yours if you want.”

Theo stood and reached for Popper, lifting him off the ground with a playfully swing. As he walked Popper over to the made, unused bed, he began to whine again. He barely placed all four paws on the taut comforter before he started trying to jump back down again. Theo caught him before he landed back on the floor; at his age, his joints weren’t prepared for such an impact.

“Oh, you want the messy bed—want the warm sheets, huh?” Theo placed him on the bed that had been cradling him in his unwanted solitude moments before. Popper landed on the bed and immediately scurried up to the pillows, scratching and digging at Boris’s before circling and plopping down. “Oh, I get it now. You like him better?”

What was Theo going to say? He _didn’t_ get it?

“Hope he gave you attention before he left—wherever he is.”

Theo wasn’t jealous of a dog. He wasn’t that pathetic—well he _was_ , but he _wasn’t_ if he didn’t acknowledge it. It was enough to simply acknowledge he was feeling _something,_ and not specifically a foggy blur of warm, fleeting _something_ when he thought of Boris. Theo refused to look directly at _anything_ swirling in his head, but he at least had grown to know it was there.

It was the least he could do now that Boris was no longer on a completely different coast; that he’d moved to complement a half Theo had ripped away from him and relocated in an inebriated panic.

Back at his desk, mug in hand, Theo tried to find his last train of thought; moving papers to uncover his last mental to-do list. Buried under his notebook and printed readings was the summer session course catalog. Theo had gone through it a few days prior while stuck on the subway. He’d circled a few class titles that seemed interesting and worth the apathetic energy to try: a few spare literature classes, a finance class—or something that sounded like one, a history course, and one language class. Conversational Russian.

The thought had come to him in secret, burrowed deep into his huddle against the metal seat frame. It trickled down his throat and pooled in his stomach. It felt devious; he was sneaking around, but with the intent of a surprise. Part of Theo wanted to disregard the idea as being too invasive to Boris’s private state of being.

Boris thought, technically, in casual, conversational Russian. The way he thought of the world, the commentary that never passed his lips—the rare, precious thoughts, Theo imagined—were all encrypted in the loose, carefully constructed conversational Russian Theo was hoping to master. The things Theo never heard from Boris he could come a step closer to knowing, at least in the proper language, by taking that class.

Theo could properly imagine what he longed to hear in their solitary hours in bed. He just wanted to know it was _possible_ to say. That all the words could go together.

Theo flipped his stack of papers over to get to another assignment from earlier in the week. Rearranging the papers unearthed lost notes to himself and three pens he was sure he’d lost in his bag. With one hand, Theo held his coffee mug up while the other sorted and shifted his workspace. Even in the blurred, haphazard shuffle, a carved, rough handwriting rose above the rows of Theo’s own lighter scrawl.

Boris had written a note, only to have it be absorbed by the mess of Theo’s coursework. Unless of course, it was meant for Theo.

_Potter,  
Ur eyes r not good enough to do so much reading! save ur site and stop working! cannot give insult more than 4-eyes._

Those weren’t the words Theo had been thinking about translating out of the (possibly) hidden secrets of Boris’s inner monologue, but they were close enough. Everyone said _It_ differently.

In the past, Theo had attempted to veil _It_ in telling Boris to take another coat before he left, offering to help him with homework, offering to buy him dinner. The hard part was getting the receiving party to understand what was buried beneath. But this time, Theo was wide open and listening.

**v.**

A few hours—and another cup of coffee—later, Boris came bounding into the room without preamble or his usual rambunctious energy. It was just before dinner, Hobie having poked his head in to announce he was back from a few post-workshop errands. Boris sat down on the edge of their bed before standing again. Theo sipped his coffee as he turned just enough to get Boris noticeably in his peripherals. He let Boris know he was waiting, but also busy.

“Potter.”

“Yeah?” Theo pretended to be mid-thought, rather than shuffling to bury the catalog under his papers further. Theo hoped his timid, slow answer to Boris could be veiled behind his grogginess—hopefully be taken as annoyance.

“Have gotten phone call while I was out.”

“Where were you? I woke up and you were gone. You leave a guy kinda cold when you do that.” Theo tried to seem inconspicuous. He almost mentioned Popper, but that seemed degrading.

“Went to go get food. Nothing I want in the fridge but—Potter, listen to me.”

“How is it you will eat everything while also being the pickiest eater?” Theo clicked his pen rather than tisking his tongue.

“Potter, they think father is dead.”

“Whoa, what? Dead—who’s _they_?”

“Partners, men he talks to from the mines. Have not heard from him in days. And friend of his friend—who is enemy of father’s _other_ friend,” Boris was drawing a small map in front of his face, but Theo was already lost, sidetracked and blindsided by the nonchalance of losing another parent between them. “Has said father has not been seen in days. Not even at liquor store or usual pub or stripping club. His circle—his work—call me today. Need someone to work for them.”

“Boris, I’m so sorry.” Theo thought about reaching out and taking his hand—he didn’t know fucking _why_ he would do such a thing—but with Boris standing, and Theo still sitting, it felt dually uncomfortable.

“Why sorry? Have been offered job, Potter.”

“Job?” Theo placed his pen down in the crease of his notebook’s spine. “As in, like, a task? The job of… what? Funeral arrangements?” Theo bit his tongue as he considered critiquing how extravagant it would be to bury Boris’s father without a body. How absolutely _heartless_ , actually, that anyone would suggest Boris take care of his father’s final expenses after what he’d continually did to Boris for years. And Theo only saw what _Vegas_ was like.

“No! If my father is dead, need someone to help in business. And Pavlikovsky men have reputation built into name. I show face and I’m in—but, of course, these men know me. No proof needed.”

“I’m not following.”

“I am needed to work. Phone call invite me back to Vegas.” Boris said. He swallowed laboriously, licking his lips and his brackets. “Have been offered job and house. The desert wants me back!”

Theo’s felt cracked— _broken_ —suddenly hemorrhaging down his chest, arms, and into his hands as they crumpled the pages innocently caught between his fingers. The note was dug up and balled into his fist.

The translation had been wrong. Misdirected and overly hopefully. Theo read what he wanted to, rather than the real words on the paper. The ones that were only in pencil and so easily disposable.

“So you’re just going to leave?” Theo tried to keep his voice even, asking just the most basic question. “They call and you go running?”

“You did the same thing.” Boris said, recoiling incredulously. He had a slight lisp now. “One snap and Potter runs!”

“I was going _home_.”

“Were running _away_.”

“And what are you doing? How are you not running away too?” Theo asked, finally getting to his feet. He wanted Boris to say it: _this wasn’t home._

“Someone wants me to come. That… That is something.”

“That’s all it takes? Just some convenient request and you stay or go?” Theo felt raw. He’d barely started to argue, but he felt shredded down to his bones—through them too, probably. Everything was torn up and Theo didn’t know how to put it all together to even be angry properly. “ _Oh, Boris! Come back to Vegas! Revive your life of being some skid row dirtbag, snorting your allowance up your nose and vomiting your youth into the sink! Come back, Boris! Get yourself **killed**!_”

Boris tightened his jaw and evened his gaze with Theo. His braces bulged his lips and kept him from looking as stoic and threatening as their teenage years, when Theo would wait for Boris to swing out and hit him.

With his braces, Boris looked young again. Theo knew he was a grown man—they were both so much older, time slipping away somehow—but he looked so... _early_.

Like everything in his life was still coming at him, just beginning to start hurtling at breakneck speed. There would be more disaster than either of them were prepared for, Theo was sure of it more than anything, but if Boris left he’d have to deal with it on his own. Their lives had gotten a reboot once arriving in New York, and Theo knew leaving wouldn’t put Boris back where he had been before; it’d start him all over again.

Theo didn’t think they both had it in them.

They both apparently, though, had a lot more silence than Theo ever thought. Boris continued to stare and Theo began to think he should’ve said something else. He slowed his breathing and lowered his eyes to Boris’s shirt buttons, breaking the stalemate.

“Someone has asked me to come back to Nevada, and I go.” Boris said again. “Have been asked to go—to stay.”

“Then _go_.” Theo pointed, with an antagonizing flourish, at the door. Boris turned on a point and stormed out. The flash of his pale arm sticking through the opening as he swiftly slammed it after him.

In the silence that followed—when Theo no longer could hear his blood in his ears—he could only hear the echo of Boris’s reasoning. Someone had asked him to go. It occurred to Theo, just as he collapsed back into his chair, that Boris was trying to get Theo to do the same. Boris wanted Theo to ask him to stay, to no longer be a guest, but a fixture.

Boris asked to be wanted, and Theo told him he wasn’t.

**vi.**

When he arrived in New York, Boris didn’t have many possessions. Three pairs of socks (none of them from the same set), the jeans on his body, and only a sweater to pull over his thin t-shirt. When Theo came home from class four days later, he found Boris packing all of it into a worn, black backpack.

“What are you doing?” Theo shouldered his own bag down to the ground and placed his coffee on the table. He’d needed one to start the day, another in the middle of class, and one on his way home; Boris had started sleeping on the couch—after staying out all night. Theo stayed up to hear Boris come in the door, to know he arrived home safe, but then after that sleeping without Boris was impossible. Why was there extra room if not for someone else?

“Packing. Catching bus back to home.” Boris pulled a ticket out of his pocket and thrust it out to Theo. He’d printed it recently, the paper still with only a single, one-time crease in it.

“You can’t go.”

“Can and will.”

“Boris, ple—you can’t. What about Hobie?” Theo shuffled and guarded the door, holding the ticket away from him.

“He said I am free to go if it is what I want.” Boris swung the bag around onto his back. It was nearly empty, collapsing on itself and going flat.

“You can’t go back. W-What about your teeth? Who’s going to fix your braces while you’re out there?” Theo let his unfocused eyes give Boris the next excuse to stay.

“These? Think I will stay for these? Is only reason I am—Fine, Potter! Teeth are for New York! Let me able to eat in Vegas!” With a slow-revealed, but fast-acting horror, Theo watched Boris reach into his mouth, as if to start pulling the brackets off his teeth.

“Boris, what the fuck are you doing?” Theo grabbed Boris’s arms roughly, yanking his wrists back. Boris’s fingernails twanged off the metal wires. “Stop being so fucking stupid!”

“Get off, Potter! Get off of me.” He elbowed Theo away and reached for his mouth again. Theo pushed him back into the table, Boris hands flying out to catch himself from falling. They stared at each other again, both far angrier than they knew what to do with.

They lunged at each other. Neither knew what they were fighting for anymore. They made defensive moves only: pushing hands away that were only trying to block their own faces. Eventually, Boris made the definitive move and grabbed at Theo’s throat. His wrist turned upward, and his thumb and forefinger pinched at the bottom of Theo’s jaw rather than his windpipe. Theo was held captive in Boris’s stare, his fury—his plea silent between them.

Boris’s fingers pulsed on Theo’s face, his nostrils flaring as his chest heaved. He begged, lips pressing tightly together over his braces, for Theo to say something.

Say _something_. Say _It_.

“Better go then.” Theo muttered. His face fell from Boris’s hands. “I’ll tell Hobie you said goodbye.”

Boris grabbed the straps of his bag and yanked his ticket from Theo’s hand. “Tell him thank you. Mister Hobie is good man.”

Why couldn’t Theo just say it? Why couldn’t Theo admit that he wanted Boris to stay, to waste his days with him—if wasting was what he wanted to do. Even the time Theo spent taking years off his life drinking in scorching heat were hours— _months_ —spent half naked and sprawled out with Boris on the concrete. They were the only hours that mattered. If Boris wanted those hours back, wanted to soak himself back into the melting asphalt, all he had to do was ask. No, it was _Theo_ who had to ask.

“You know,” Theo held the back of a dining chair, fingernails finding the grain of the wood and settling in. Boris stopped twisting his key off his chain. “Hobie misses Welty every day. I-I can see it.”

Boris blinked. He didn’t move any further.

“They were best friends. And then one day he left and never came back. Left a pretty big hole, I imagine. What could fill a void of… someone like that?” Theo shifted and swallowed thickly. “I bet he’s going to feel the same way about you.”

“Was man in museum. Died with your mother, yes?” Boris licked his lips. “Took a lot from you, the explosion.”

“I think I made out okay.”

“Ah, yes. Your little bird.” Boris made no motion to thumb back to their room. To even look at the wrapped bag tucked under Boris’s guest bed, far away from them when they were trying to find peace.

“No. It sent me to…” _You_. “live with my dad. Vegas. Didn’t take everything. I got something too.”

“Very use to loss.” Boris nodded, his head falling. He looked at his shoes, as if he wasn’t sure why he’d put them on. He had pulled the backs up around his heels. The laces were in new knots.

“Yeah.” Things were always leaving Theo, most lost forever. This was going to be another one of those things. A memory, a concentrated feeling he’d have to place on the top shelf, hoping one day he’d forget it was there.

“Should be easy then, yes?” Boris slapped his key on the side table.

What happened in the museum was nothing like this. Theo lost his mother in a moment, a flash, a snap of a perfectly fine smile, that budded into this strange new life he was living. It was a splinter from tension he never saw coming. Watching Boris leave was sitting in front of an hourglass, following each grain of sand down to the bottom, but unable to reach and plunge his hands into it, grabbing some time for himself. Not unless Theo shattered the glass himself.

“It doesn’t mean I like it.” Theo spoke to the door, slammed before he’d divided their silence. “Please stay.”

**vii.**

Hobie had very little to say to Theo that night at dinner. Theo wasn’t sure if he, himself, was upset with Boris, with Hobie, or just generally upset and needed the dinner conversation to be silent—and kept within himself. The food was cold before either of them attempted to eat it. Theo wasn’t hungry—didn’t think he ever would be again—but he tried to present his distress as worry over his older guardian. It wouldn’t have been easy for Theo to sigh over his scarcely covered plate and announce how empty he felt, having been on the other side of a sudden, panicked run away.

In a quick excuse of overdue homework, Theo slipped away to their— _his_ —room. He shrugged off his day clothes and grabbed at the blankets on the floor, ready to flop onto his bed. With a foot raised and body tilted, Theo wasn’t sure if he was ready to sleep with that ghost. The bed was really only made for one person, for him, but knowing he’d been able to fit another soul there with him made even his own body feel empty. There could be one more person; they were meant to be one whole.

The untouched, still-made bed on the other end of the room cradled Theo as he laid down, blanket over his shoulders and lightly flopped over his legs. He bumped his glasses off his face and stared up at the ceiling.

He dreamt without sleep. There was no hope, no newly conjured images. It was just a rehash of everything that was lost:

* * *

“Boris?” Theo had opened the front door to a wet, sheep-dog of a man. It had been raining for hours and the electricity flickered as he stood in the foyer. It felt dramatic, the turning of tides and changing of fate. The ending of a streak of bad luck. “Is that you?”

“Found you, Potter!” Boris cried, pushing his dripping wet bangs out of his eyes. He was thinner than the last time Theo saw him. His hair was choppy, a home haircut already grown out. “Told you would come! _Told_ you!”

He hadn’t, but Theo was so relieved to see him, he let Boris think he fulfilled a promise. Theo tried to seem righteous, rather than surprised and thankful for the good luck.

“I can come in? Freezing outside! Rain is like knife, practically ice! Already miss desert, Potter, _jesus_ is it cold!”

###

It was summer, so of course it was hot. But it was _too_ hot. There was no reason for it to be _that_ hot. Their section of the city had a brown out, and the hum of the air conditioner had died right when Boris had rolled over and accidentally knocked Theo’s teeth. Neither of them were asleep, but the restless moving was enough conversation.

It was so fucking hot. Theo was sure they shouldn’t have been laying on top of each other, for a multitude of reasons: since the power just dipped out, Hobie could come in at any moment to see if they were okay; they could both sober up from their assured heatstroke and see how tightly they were holding each other, despite the obvious human need to move away; or they could get too comfortable.

But Theo wasn’t going to push Boris to the bed across the room, no matter how cold the sheets might’ve been. He didn’t want Boris to be away, not after what he almost did an hour before. What he’d almost said to Boris.

What had almost slipped out from his trembling lips as he gasped in the pitch-black room squared around him. He only knew where the bed ended because it was where he couldn’t feel Boris—on him, around him, in him.

What Theo was thinking as his blind vision felt as though it could turn white, his entire body blanking repeatedly: waves wiping everything away again and again. Theo was only left with one thing, one thought.

With Boris’s hand down the front of Theo’s boxers and his other hand buried deep in his hair, grabbing it so tightly his neck bent and cracked, Theo had almost broken their silently stated agreement to never use words when they were together. He’d almost, in a fit of desperation and empty-headedness—or was it clear-headedness—said that he loved Boris.

Covered head to toe in sweat already, they had clambered over one another, groping and grabbing at the opposite body they couldn’t see. Theo wanted to know how Boris looked; it was the only communication he ever got. But he only got the radiating heat of another body over top of his own boiling heat.

With the power out, and the heat creeping back in to find them, Boris had rolled in closer. Theo thought about saying it then, but he’d forgotten the words. Forgotten the way they should’ve sounded: sincere but begging, breathy and pleading, giving and giving.

###

After a long day of class—and being told by a professor they were ‘glad he was finally remembering his potential’—Theo came back to the shop. He found Boris in the workshop sweeping up sawdust and singing in Russian. Hobie was sitting on a nearby stool with a cup of tea, grinning between them.

“We were just catching up.” He said to Theo, toasting him with his cup before sipping. There was something new to Hobie’s smile. Theo never saw it before, and definitely didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t pity, nor was it charity from listening to Boris. There was a sweetness to it that seemed to drip another similar sounding sadness.

Three days later, when Theo was helping Hobie wash dishes, he asked what they’d talked about. What they’d kept talking about since then.

“Boris reminds me a lot of myself when I was a boy.” He said.

Theo didn’t know what that meant. He never asked.

###

The air tasted the way the fizz of a freshly poured can of soda felt on your nose. Theo forgot how many fingers he was supposed to have, but it felt like he had thirteen. His eyes stung, but then again, he couldn’t remember how many hours he’d had them open. Or maybe hours wasn’t the right increment of time…

Theo was stretched out on his bed, a few pills were scattered on the flipped open lid of his metal pencil case. The hard-capped highlighter they’d been using to crush them was still in Theo’s hand. He was using it like a stress-ball, squeezing it every time he felt like laughing— _giggling_. There was something heavy and warm over his legs. Over half of his body. It moved when he did. It felt good when it moved alone too.

He didn’t remember how many fingers he was supposed to have.

Thirteen. Or maybe just two.

* * *

As Theo surfaced from his stream of hopeful visions and minor nightmares, he found himself on the way to the bus terminal. He didn’t remember leaving—and definitely didn’t remember his jacket in the chilled evening air. Theo had closed his eyes in bed and opened them to shoving his hands in his front pockets, shivering as he marched down the sidewalk.

Theo hoped he locked the door behind him—or at least told Hobie where he was going.

Theo knew how this scene went; he knew how it could go if Boris still decided to leave. But he didn’t want him to. They both didn’t cross the country to let something as _stupid_ as a phone call rip Boris out of Theo’s reach again.

Something told Theo if Boris went to Vegas again, he’d never come back. And Theo wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that.

After hunting down a bus schedule, and then a floor plan, Theo found Boris’s bus. It hadn’t left yet, the line stretching out toward other terminals. The waiting area was mostly empty otherwise, the low-hanging ceilings making Theo feel both isolated and closed-in.

“Boris,” Theo stood across the floor, staring at the line. Boris was in the middle, hands holding his bag straps. He turned to look at Theo, immediately pushing his hair out of his face. Theo wasn’t sure if he was happy to see Boris so genuinely surprised. “Boris, wait.”

“What do you want?”

“You can’t go yet.” Theo moved his arms, hands still in his pockets. “You… You left stuff in the house.”

“Did not.” Boris resisted, but seemingly to make Theo work harder. To say what _he’d_ said all those years ago in Vegas.

Boris had asked Theo to stay. Boris had kissed Theo and asked him to stay with him, not go running off.

“You can’t go.” Theo tried to ignore the line of people on either side of Boris. They were tired people just trying to take the bus home or likewise embarking on a long journey that didn’t need to start with two squawking twenty-year-olds. “You can’t.”

“Family wants me to come. I have to go.”

“We’re your family though.” Theo stayed where he was on the tile floor. Stepping any closer would seem desperate, he thought. “Hobie thinks of you as another son.”

“One less to feed though.” Boris stepped up as the line shifted. The bus was loading.

“Boris, _please_. Don’t go back—you can’t. I—” The people behind Boris were looking at Theo now, wondering if their conversation was going to hold up the line. Time was slipping by, like a strange game of tug of war. The longer Theo stalled the more Boris was pulled back to Vegas. He was probably passing Oklahoma at this point, nearly convinced to rightfully abandon Theo.

To gain ground again, Theo stepped forward. He took one step. Then two more. Determined, Theo kept walking until he was in front of Boris, grabbing his face and pulling him into a kiss.

The brackets were hard against Theo’s lips, awkwardly dragging over them as Boris stood frozen and confused in line. The people behind Boris had started walking around him, Theo hearing their footsteps but blocking them out as he inched forward again. He felt like his chest was swelling as he breathed Boris in, their bodies pressing together in a privately gentle, but publicly exposed way.

Theo felt disgusting. But Boris wouldn’t stop kissing him.

Boris’s hands were far more familiar with Theo—or maybe it was just frantic relief in general—and grabbed his waist—more so Theo’s ribs. His fingers pressed against the valleys of his bones and felt like an exhale with increasing pressure. Boris though, didn’t know with all the metal in his mouth, and turned his head both ways, trying to make up for the strange barrier that kept him from feeling all that close to Theo. Feel the rest of the way home.

“Are you going to stay?” Theo’s face felt like it was burning, and his hands were not-so-subtly stuck in Boris’s tangled hair. He hid both realities by remaining close to—up against—Boris, speaking with their lips brushing.

“You have not asked me to.”

“Boris, please, I want you to stay here with us.” Theo felt his stomach churning, but he was still so parched for that gloss of liquid detail over his lips again. “It took me so long to say because I thought it was a given.”

“Potter, you never say anything. All the time, silent with me. Do not like to guess. We are friends, yes? Best friends—like brothers almost! And will not tell me anything. Even when things are _about_ me. Difficult, Potter. Is difficult to know. Hard to understand in you.” Boris wasn’t one for succinct communication, but he was one for _direct_ communication.

“Okay.” Theo said. “But, can you… not say we’re brothers?”

“Ack, so _picky_!”

“I just had your tongue in my mouth.” Theo said, unbudgingly. “That’s weird.”

“What? American boy never heard of _tongue_ before--”

“No. The ton—that was fine. The _brother_ in conjunction with—you know what? Forget I said anything.”

“Yes, yes, shut up.” Boris laughed and pulled at Theo’s glasses, popping them off his nose and gripping them in his one hand. His palm pressed against the lens, and Theo wanted to protest, but he was preoccupied by Boris yanking him back in and kissing him. Again. The private and public blended, exposed, destroyed; dam broken and water spilling everywhere.

**viii.**

When Theo left to walk to the train station, Hobie didn’t know where Theo was going, but also made no motion to stop him. Upon walking back in the door though, Hobie was already sitting at the small tea table, waiting. He nearly leapt over the table when Boris stepped out from behind Theo and into the house, already kicking off his shoes.

The exchange was completely silent. Theo stepped away and observed it from the hallway, pretending he didn’t notice the anxiousness trailing the relieved greeting. Hobie grabbed Boris around the shoulders and pulled him in, placing his other hand on the back of Boris’s head. Boris’s arms hung by his sides, hands flexing and twitching as he tried to navigate how to respond—how to reciprocate.

Of course, though, Hobie wasn’t acting out of need for reciprocation—or waiting for it. He held Boris tightly, as long as it took for Hobie to feel that when he lifted his hands, Boris wouldn’t slip away.

The fear of loss was understandable, not that Theo would disclose it to Hobie at any point in the future. Boris had such a habit of slipping into the foundation of every place he entered and every person he met. Knowing Boris was to no longer know life without him; he became the hearth that every home was built on, because every moment and interaction was fueled by an unstoppable fire: love and loyalty.

Theo would never say this, of course. He would never admit to understanding such a part of Boris, of even _looking_ for this part of him (of himself?). But looking at Boris was all the reassurance Theo needed. Hell, simply being able to still look at Boris was comfort enough.

The youth had faded from Boris’s face. Not that he looked aged in the warm and homely lighting, but in that the early naivety had been cleared away. There was a blankness to Boris as he left Hobie and crawled into bed. It might have been emotional exhaustion—of nearly sending himself to the other side of the country because he felt the home he had found there was temporary and conditional. But it may have also been a kind of newness to Boris; an _unknown_.

Something was uncovered in Boris, but yet to be discoverable. That wasn’t for Theo to know just yet. It was a future endeavor, a commitment _to_ discover within Boris. Life wasn’t suddenly hurtling toward them both, but gently unfolding at their feet with every step toward their room.

Kicking off his shoes, Theo slid into bed after Boris. The mattress felt small, and Theo had never been so thankful. Theo laid on his back while Boris was on his side, arm resting over Theo’s stomach. Everything was still and silent, but nothing felt deprived. Nothing depraved. Just a simple silence—a pause to the world beyond them. Theo could acknowledge that the pause was actually just ignorance toward what he’d done that evening, but he chose to ignore _that_.

Theo had secured home after years of thinking it was still far in the distance. He held home in his arms, and it had so graciously decided to hold him back.


End file.
